


Grin and Bear It (Need a Little Christmas Now)

by messofthejess



Series: Jess's Carry On Countdown 2020 [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Advice, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Discussion of character death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving During Christmas, References to Depression, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, it's hurt/comfort Fiona Pitch style, unsolicited advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess
Summary: In which Fiona gives a stuffed bear and unsolicited advice as Christmas presents.
Relationships: Fiona Pitch & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Malcolm Grimm & Fiona Pitch
Series: Jess's Carry On Countdown 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034865
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	Grin and Bear It (Need a Little Christmas Now)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I've seen this concept - where Fiona gives Baz Paddington Bear for Christmas and chews out Malcolm - done before, but I can't remember. Ah well. 
> 
> Any inconsistencies with what is in canon is purely because I couldn't be arsed to get up and comb through my copy of Carry On. 
> 
> Written for Day 29 of the Carry On Countdown: Secret Santa/Gift Giving.

**Fiona**

It occurs to me as the MG barrels its way out of London on the M3 that I have no idea if Baz knows who or what Paddington Bear is. He might take one look at the cheerful brown bear in his blue duffel coat and be utterly perplexed. Or he might try to rip its arms off. Or he might ignore it entirely. Should I have bought him one of those story collections with the Paddington stories so the bear makes sense?

Not like it would have done much good. Malcolm isn’t the type to sit Baz down on his knee and read him stories. He couldn’t even be arsed to call me tonight – I had to hear about his crisis from the _housekeeper_ of all people.

“He hasn’t come out of the library all day,” Valerie—Velma?—no, Vera—whispered into the phone. “I’ve kept Baz occupied, but he keeps gazing up the stairs like he’s looking for his daddy, and I can’t keep this up all night.”

They don’t allow Vera near the phone for obvious reasons. She’s a Normal that gets charmed every so often when she starts to suspect too much about the magical aspect of the family. If she ever managed to slip away and call the Normal authorities, there would be a catastrophe on our hands.

Seems like there is a catastrophe on my hands right now. When I get to Hampshire, I’m going to fucking wring Malcolm’s neck. Leaving the kid all alone on Christmas Eve to sulk? There aren’t words harsh enough to describe how much of an asshole he is.

Of course I have to stop at a petrol station for cigarettes, so I grab a box of likely soggy second-tier biscuits from the shelf and buy them, staring down the bored twenty-something standing behind the counter while they ring me up. (There are probably biscuits at the house because Malcolm isn’t that uncultured, but God only knows if they’re still fresh.) I make a big show of filling up with petrol outside before heading off. Then, once I get out from under the harsh fluorescent lights of the petrol station, I whisper “ ** _Baby, you can drive my car_** ” to the MG and let it take over for the rest of the drive to Hampshire.

I’m in a right state by the time I pull into the driveway and the MG rolls to a halt. Most of the house windows are dark. _Dark_ , on Christmas Eve. If Nat were still here, this wouldn’t have happened. There would have been a candle flickering in every single window, and the doorbell would have been charmed to play a different carol every time it was rung. At least a wreath would have been hung on the front door and garland twisting down the railings, for Merlin’s sake. Pathetic.

“Thank heavens you’re here,” Vera tells me as she swings open the door and lets me into the foyer. No lights anywhere aside from the normal gargoyle sconces that I’ve always loathed – I might as well be walking into a crypt. “Didn’t know who else I would have called. All the other Grimms are so far away, and—”

“You did the right thing calling me.” I tuck Paddington up under my arm and stride toward the main sitting room, where I hear the faintest sound of Christmas music. Baz is sitting on the floor in a deep green jumper and trousers, looking much older than five, scribbling in a coloring book and hardly paying attention to the dancing elves on the telly.

“Baz! Darling, your favorite auntie is here!” Vera says, shuffling out from behind me.

“Damn right.” I grin and kneel down to the floor. “Oi, Baz!”

He finally blinks up at me, big grey eyes a little too large for his face. Slowly, steadily, a smile forms. “Fi!”

“Yes, it’s Fi. Come over here.”

Baz stands up, brushes his trouser knees off (he’s clearly watched Malcolm garden too many times and is copying him, good Lord), and toddles over. “Have you come to spend Christmas with me and Father?”

“As soon as I can find your father, yeah. Got you something, but didn’t have time to wrap it.” I hold up Paddington, which I now realize is about as tall as Baz. “Merry Christmas, ya little punk.”

Baz tilts his head at the bear, considering it. Then he reaches over, gently takes Paddington into his arms, and presses the bear’s head over his shoulder in a full-body hug. A genuine smile threatens to split his face in half as his eyes drift closed.

Something squeezes hard in my chest at the sight. For a moment, I almost forget the tragedy that befell all of us a few short months ago. I can pretend that Baz doesn’t have two distinct puncture wounds in his neck and a condition that we know nothing about which will someday manifest. I can pretend that Natasha is bustling around in the kitchen with the cooking staff, supervising Christmas Eve dinner, rather than spending tonight and the rest of eternity entombed under Watford. I can pretend everything is as it used to be.

“Think you found a real winner with that, Fiona,” Vera remarks.

“Yeah, well. Hard to miss when you give a five-year-old a teddy bear,” I mutter. “I’ve got to see Malcolm and have a little chat with him. Where did you say he was?”

“The upstairs library, but—” I cut Vera off when I stand up and brush past her back out to the foyer. “Could you be kind with him? Please?”

My hand is on the railing, and I feel like if I clenched my fingers, I could splinter the hard polished wood without much effort.

“He lost any opportunity for kindness from me the moment you called,” I say flatly before charging up the stairs. I make sure my boot heels clunk on every step, so there’s no mistaking who’s coming for him.

The heavy oak doors of the library are open a crack, so there’s no need for me to do an “ ** _Open Sesame!_** ” for a grand entrance. Instead, I slip inside and am greeted by near darkness. The only light coming in is from the sliver of a crescent moon hanging outside one of the windows. Malcolm is sitting alone, facing a cold, empty fireplace, his one visible hand clenched into the worn leather of his armchair. Holding on to sanity for dear life, no doubt.

Well. Time to liven this place up. A ball of fire blazes out of my wand and makes a beeline for the fireplace, where it immediately settles into place in the grate. Just as I predicted, Malcolm spins toward me, eyes wide in shock.

“What are you—Fiona! What the hell?”

“Happy Christmas to you, too.”

“When did—I didn’t think—Vera didn’t say—”

“Believe me, I had plans.” A lie. The only plan I had was to find any bar in London that wasn’t rip-roaringly merry, get well sozzled, and maybe snag someone and climb down their chimney like Father Christmas (or up their chimney, as the case may be). “Plans that didn’t involve finding out my nephew was spending Christmas alone while his desiccated bastard of a father was off sulking by himself!”

“Fiona—”

“I mean, honestly!”

“You sound as though I’ve abandoned him in the snow.”

“ _You might as well have!_ ” I stomp over to where Malcolm sits, fully prepared to clock him into the New Year if necessary. “Vera has her own family, too, have you considered that?”

Malcolm glares up at me, both hands gripping the armchair so hard the knuckles have turned white. Even through the welling tears, I still find myself startled by how fierce his eyes are. “Don’t pretend you suddenly care about other people.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Your plans for tonight involved crawling into a bottle—”

“Hey!”

“—so you don’t have to feel anything until you sober up! At least…at least I’m still here.” He sags back against the chair. In the firelight, I see the heavy bags under his eyes, the lines drawn around his mouth. All the hair slicked back from his forehead is more white than black; in a few more months, any trace of black will be gone. Even his eyebrows are getting more peppered.

I cross my arms. “Are you, though?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you still here, Malcolm?”

He sighs so hard it’s as though his chest has been crushed. “I…I’m here physically. Mentally, I…spiritually…I don’t want to be. There are days I wake up, and I wish I hadn’t. My dreams…she haunts me there, but at least she’s there. So why am I still here?”

Jesus Christ and Mother Mary, this is getting heavier than I expected.

“I know, I know, my son needs me. Now more than ever, Baz needs me. But I don’t know if I…I don’t think I can be what he needs.”

“If you’re talking about the vampire thing—oh for fuck’s sake, get _over it_ ,” I snap when Malcolm flinches at the word ‘vampire’, “it’s what he is now—we can get books. I can go out, see if my contacts in Shanghai have any tips—”

Malcolm shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. We have time to learn about all that. I mean the day-to-day things. I knew how to be a father with Natasha here, because I followed her lead. We were in lockstep. Now…I feel so far down in a pit that I can’t crawl out of, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to be a father when I’m down here. I mean, my God,” he lets out a hollow laugh, “I messed up Christmas!”

“You didn’t fuck up Christmas.”

“Yes, I did. I could barely be bothered to put up a tree.”

“Ah. I was wondering how Vera put that ten-foot monstrosity up by herself.”

“Very amusing.” Malcolm clears his throat. “In all seriousness, I cannot summon the holiday spirit this year. Maybe it’s because Natasha loved Christmas so much, and she’s gone now. What’s the point in celebrating if the one who loves it most isn’t here?”

I chew on my lip, fidget with the ring on my middle finger. There _is_ a point, I know there is. Back at my flat, I only have a tiny artificial tree on my coffee table and a few strings of garland I snatched from here at Hampshire back when I was a teenager. The radio in my MG is solidly tuned away from any station that might even suggest I do the jingle bell rock. And again, my original hare-brained idea for this evening was not the most festive in the world. Who am I to lecture a man who lost his wife on how to celebrate or not?

I reach inside my jacket, pull out a cigarette, and light it with a snap of my fingers. (I’d meant to be smoking one when I burst in for pure intimidation, but I got ahead of myself.) One draw. Two draws. Three. I blow the smoke up toward the ceiling while Malcolm waits.

“That’s the fucked-up part about Christmas, isn’t it?” I say after a dramatic pause. “There’s all this ridiculous pressure to be merry and cheerful and full of goodwill toward man, even when you’d rather curl up and forget the world exists. And if you don’t celebrate Christmas at all? Tch. You get shoved off as scum of the earth, or worse.”

Malcolm blinks at me but doesn’t interrupt. Good man. Well-bred enough that he still remembers his manners, even when grief-stricken.

“The thing is, when you do things like put up the tree or sing along to carols or pound down three tins of biscuits in one go,” Malcolm raises an eyebrow at me, but I plow on, “you kinda _do_ start to feel it. Even if you weren’t feeling much of anything before. The Christmas spirit…Jesus Christ, gag me…it’s something you _make_. Not something that _is._ ”

I sigh. “Look, I know Natasha isn’t going to come back through the magic of tinsel or gingerbread. But maybe if you try—if we both put in a little effort—we can make it almost like she’s still around. Y’know?”

For the first time in years, Malcolm smiles at me. It’s a wretched thing, pinched too high in the corners like he hasn’t done it for a while. He probably hasn’t. “That might be the best thing you’ve ever said to me, Fiona.”

“Yeah, well,” I wave my hand, “consider that unsolicited advice your Christmas gift. I’ll get you something you can actually unwrap in a couple days.”

“Father?”

The little voice makes my head nearly snap off my neck with how quickly I turn around. Baz is standing behind us, holding Paddington very firmly on his hip. Unbearably precious. Behind him, Vera is in the doorway of the library, looking apologetic. Baz must have bolted away from her.

“Yes, Basilton?”

“Christ’s sake, Malcolm. Basilton is a mouthful for an adult, let alone a kid. Call him Baz.”

“ _Fiona_ ,” Malcolm warns me before turning back to Baz. “What is it, son?”

“I was wondering whether you would like to come down and pull Christmas crackers with me. I’ve been waiting ever so long with Miss Vera.”

“Crackers! Yes, of course!” There goes that too-big smile again, though this time I think Malcolm is being totally sincere. “Fiona, would you like to join us?”

I look at Baz, who gazes back at me with those deep grey eyes that are far too knowing for a five-year-old. I look over at Malcolm, who appears to be unwilling to take no for an answer. Suppose if I dish out advice, I should also follow it, like an honest person. Ugh.

“Guess I’m legally obligated to, aren’t I?” I make a big show of standing up and stomping out my cigarette on my boot heel, ignoring the lethal glare from Malcolm as I do. “Being that I gave you a present and all that. Vera, is there any eggnog?”

“There is hot chocolate!” Baz offers. “With peppermint sticks you can stir round in the mug. I’m only supposed to have one in my hot chocolate, but you can have two if you want.”

“How very generous of you.” I gesture out the door. “Lead the way.”

We follow Baz out of the library, and Malcolm puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers thanks one more time. I dunno why I have to be thanked for honesty, but I’ll take it.

Grin and bear it. That’s how I’ve handled everything these last few months since Natasha died. My strategy’s no different for Christmas, and I doubt it’ll change anytime soon. But for tonight, maybe if we celebrate enough, she’ll be with us, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas is a difficult time of year for many, and this year is no exception. What I tried to do with this fic is capture my own emotions around Christmas as they are this year. I'll be honest: I haven't had what I would call a "good" Christmas in a long time, probably since I became an adult. But this year, I'm making an effort to make it a good one, because I firmly believe that you do make the Christmas spirit for yourself. 
> 
> Stay safe, be well, and have a merry Christmas. And if you don't celebrate, have a good day for yourself~


End file.
